


When the Dusk Fell in Love with the Dawn

by FourCatProductions



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, Femslash February 2019, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Love Confessions, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Political Alliances, Post-Civil War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 18:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17667434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/FourCatProductions
Summary: Rikke and Elisif discuss the next steps for Skyrim and the Empire after the war.





	When the Dusk Fell in Love with the Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> A little something I whipped up for Femslash February, for the prompts "Sun" and "Moon" ("Opposites" could also technically apply here). This is sort of a liberal interpretation of the prompts, but the story does as the story will.

The night of the final battle, the air fills with fire. Rikke chokes on it while she kills her oldest friends. One or all of them were destined to die that night; that is the truth of the matter, and better her to serve Skyrim than them to rule it. If there were any other way to end it, she would have tried, but there never is. It always ends in ruin, raw and red and ugly.

Still, she does not make them suffer. All of them have suffered enough.

When it’s over she leans on her sword and trembles, her hands wet with blood. Some of it is hers. Most of it is not. Her body aches, but at her core she feels nothing. Like a hollow tree with the heart rotted out.

*****

She emerges from the palace to a world raining ash beneath a fat amber moon. How much of it is made from the flesh and bones of her countrymen? How much from homes that will never be the same, no matter how many times they’re rebuilt? She doesn’t know. She breathes out, flakes of char coating her tongue. She will taste it in the back of her throat for days.

 _Is it done,_ Tullius asks her? His face and armor are smudged with smoke, his eyes flat. His hand sits heavy on her shoulder. _Is it done._

 _Yes,_ Rikke says. The word spills from her mouth like fresh blood from a wound. _It’s done._

He gives a speech while they pull Ulfric and Galmar’s bodies from the hall, wrapped in tapestries of Talos’ greatest deeds. Rikke vomits quietly in the corner and waits until she is alone to weep.

*****

Solitude is nothing like Windhelm. Solitude is sunny and blue and Elisif shines like a jewel on her throne, resplendent in all her finery. Rikke thinks she will make a good queen – she’s young and inexperienced, but she’s kind and loyal and her people love her. When she smiles, it makes the room feel warmer. Others whisper that it makes her weak – her beauty, her youth, her soft heart – but Rikke isn’t fooled. Youth and beauty are as good as a shield and sword in the realm of politics.

Tullius tells the story of the battle for Skyrim, but it’s Rikke Elisif keeps looking at, Rikke who stands tall at his side in her carved ceremonial armor. When she thanks them for their service, the whole hall drowns her out with their cheers. Children and maidens throw roses and dragon’s tongue from the balcony by the dozens. Would they still cheer if they knew, Rikke wondered? If they’d seen her butcher Ulfric and Galmar and a dozen others like a pig farmer mid-harvest? If they knew that she still smells old blood in her nostrils whenever she closes her eyes?

“Smile,” Tullius says without looking at her. “It’s what they need right now.”

“Yes sir,” Rikke says, and smiles. For the rest of the day her hair smells like funeral flowers.

*****

Bolgeir Bear-Claw brings a summons to Castle Dour the following morning. The scroll is dwarfed by his huge, battered hand when he holds it out to her.

“Jarl Elisif wishes to speak with you at the palace.”

Rikke takes it. “Should I inform the general?”

“No.” He shakes his shaggy head. “She wants to speak with you. Just you.”

Rikke doesn’t know what Elisif could possibly want from her that she can’t get from Tullius. She goes anyway, to find out. Bolgeir leads her through the Blue Palace, past the throne room to Elisif’s chambers, and raps twice on its gilded door.

“Come in,” is the soft reply.

Rikke steps inside, and Bolgeir leaves them without a backward glance, shutting the door behind him. Elisif smiles. She’s wearing a deep green dressing gown, her face and head bare, and the rich red of her hair burns against the cream and blue interior of her rooms. She gestures at the table, which has been set for two, and picks up the crystal decanter at hand. “Please, Legate, sit. Join me for breakfast.”

“Jarl Elisif.” Rikke sits. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Elisif doesn’t answer right away. She busies herself pouring two cups of water, one of which she hands to Rikke before wetting her lips. “Now that the rebellion has come to an end, I thought it prudent we discuss Skyrim’s future.”

Rikke nods, approving. Every Hold in the province had felt the sting of wartime tithes and taxation, and the general infrastructure had suffered heavy casualties. Repairs would need to begin soon. “I agree.”

“As you know, the moot is in two months’ time.” She touches her hair when she’s nervous, Elisif, soft pretty eyes wide and soft pretty hands fluttering. “I was hoping you might accompany me.”

Of all the directions Rikke could have predicted their conversation taking, this one hadn’t been among them. She takes a moment to choose her words. “I’m honored that you would ask me to be there, but there’s no need to worry. You have the Empire’s full support, and the best claim to the throne. No one in their right mind would dissent.”

“Thank you, Legate, but no. That’s not my concern.” Elisif folds her hands in her lap. “I have a proposal for you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Be my Champion,” she says without preamble, and Rikke starts. “I know Ulfric has supporters that live on, and dark times are upon us. Less than a year ago Bolgeir stopped an assassin from dispatching me in this very room.”

“He _what_?”

“My point, Legate, is that we could all benefit from a strengthened alliance.” There’s fear in Elisif’s blue eyes, but something else too, mingled with hope. “Be the Queen’s Champion. Solidify the renewed covenant between Skyrim and the Empire, and help me remind everyone that we need each other if we’re going to weather the storm.” She picks up the platter next to her and offers it to Rikke. “Scone?”

“No, thank you,” Rikke says. _Champion._ It’s overwhelming. She’s more at home on the battlefield than in Solitude’s gilded court, free from aspirations (or delusions) of grandeur. But more than blood, more than oaths, she is above all loyal to her homeland, and if Elisif is to be High Queen, that loyalty extends to her as well. She’s worthy of it, more so than most on the short list of suitable candidates, but –

“Why me?”

Elisif nibbles on a scone, pats the crumbs from her mouth with a napkin. “They say you were friends once. You, Ulfric and Galmar.” Rikke manages not to flinch when she says their names, but only just. “That you all served together in the Great War. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“That’s why, Legate. Because I can trust that nothing and no one will stop you from acting in Skyrim’s best interests. Not even me.” Rikke stares, at a loss, and Elisif’s cheeks pinken. “I’ve… admired you from afar for some time,” she says, voice quiet. “Your conviction, and your courage. I can only hope that I’m able to demonstrate those same qualities.”

Rikke doesn’t think about her answer. “You already have,” she says, not to flatter or ingratiate, but simply because it’s true. Many a lesser woman would have crumbled in her place, but if anything, it seems to have brought out the best in Elisif; there’s a steel and shine that wasn’t present before, a renewed spark of determination in those boundless blue eyes, and perhaps she’s already made up her mind, because even as she thinks these things Rikke gets out of her chair and kneels before Elisif, head bowed.

“Legate?”

Rikke draws her sword. There’s less reason to wear it these days, but she still feels naked without its familiar weight on her hip. The blade gleams when she lays it across Elisif’s lap, freshly honed. “I accept,” she says, meeting Elisif’s startled gaze. “As long as you rule Skyrim justly, I’ll champion you until I can no longer lift this blade or draw breath. You have my word on that.”

Elisif’s hand curls around the hilt, and her face is solemn as she touches the flat of the blade to Rikke’s shoulders – first the left, then the right. “You honor me with your service, Legate.”

“Please.” She sheathes her sword, but remains kneeling. “Call me Rikke.”

“Rikke.” Elisif says her name like she’s tasting sweet wine, the final syllable lingering on her tongue. Her hand is cool where it cups Rikke’s cheek. “Will you come with me to the moot?”

 _I’ve always wanted to visit High Hrothgar,_ Rikke had remarked to Tullius when they’d ridden up the mountain months ago, breath whisking behind them in thick white plumes. _Shame it has to be under these circumstances._ She will never be able to separate Ulfric and Galmar from those ancient stones; their shades live on there, in the last memories she has of them that don’t end in death. She closes her eyes, a shudder running through her. Elisif’s fingers lift her chin.

“I know what it’s like,” she says. “This war has broken all our hearts.”

“I fear it’s not over yet, my Jarl.”

“I fear the same.” She hesitates, and then, to Rikke’s continued astonishment, slides out of her chair in a flurry of fine wool and silks to kneel as well, clasping Rikke’s scar-rough hands in her own small palms like a prayer. “But I think we may find our burdens easier to bear if we share their weight.” She trembles when Rikke brings those fine hands to her lips and kisses each pale fingertip, one by one. “That is, if you… if you think…”

“I think,” Rikke says, “that I’m a fortunate woman to shoulder your burdens.”

“To share and share alike,” Elisif corrects, leaning in to kiss her, and Rikke supposes she could argue but then Elisif’s mouth is on hers and she shuts her eyes, threading her fingers through soft sunset hair. The world will still be there when she surfaces, but for a few brief moments she cares for nothing but the warmth in her arms and the heat in her belly, burning like she swallowed the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Come join me in rarepair hell, it's nice and warm here.


End file.
